


The Odds

by SocialDisease609



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, Other, gwent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-02
Updated: 2016-07-02
Packaged: 2018-07-19 13:56:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7364086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SocialDisease609/pseuds/SocialDisease609
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Taking a moment to breath from escaping the Wild Hunt on a day to day basis, Ciri plays gwent! lol<br/>And hates it! <br/>One shot just for fun lol pretty much how gwent side quests really go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Odds

            Ciri pushed the dark oaken door open with one swift extension of her arm, walking through the threshold of the bustling inn. Novigrad was always wide awake, each innkeeper kept busy with a constant flow of travelers and locals, each seeking board, mead, and a quick hot meal. Ciri on the other hand had decided to visit this inn just to have one simple moment of stress relief. With the Wild Hunt on her scent for days, she had finally felt that she was a good step or two ahead of them this time, their frost no longer chilling her heels. Because of this, she gave in to a moment of selfishness and decided she deserved one night, or at least just a few hours, for some method of relaxation.

            The infamous child of the Elder Blood was not one to drink too heavily, despite being raised among a particular company of witchers who undoubtable could tell apart every stout the Continent had to offer. However, a pint or two wasn’t harmful. She had read in a book once that a small increase in alcohol in your system was beneficial to creativity.

            As she walked through the ruckus of the bright yellow candle-lit inn, she found the innkeeper tending his counter, the barstools full of miserably drunk men hunched over their cheap tin steins. A small band of musicians swayed in the furthest left corner of the inn by a table of customers fervently playing individual rounds of gwent. The music provided by the band filled the atmosphere with oddly pleasing screeches of fiddles and a light pounding of a single drum, giving the heartwarming feel of recognizable local folk music.  

            “What will it be for ye, miss?” asked the innkeeper, drying a mug with an overused rag.

            “A pint of Kaedwenian Stout,” Ciri responded enthusiastically, lightly placing her fist on the splintered bar. It was the only beer Ciri had been tolerant of, and because of this she never really bothered to learn the names or tastes of others. Besides, she was coming to discover that she had an intriguing attraction to the taste of malt.

            The innkeeper nodded and turned to fiddle with his barrels of brews. Ciri turned around to rest her back against the bar, her elbows being her main source of support. She watched the occupants of the inn curse, swear, threaten, and flirt- all the behaviors she had come to recognize as the expected charm of any inn. She smiled faintly, pleased with herself for taking this brief moment to herself.

            “Here you go, miss,” returned the innkeeper, placing the overflowing mug of black stout down on the bar counter. “That’ll be five orens, please.”

            Ciri reached into her thin pockets and pulled out a couple small coins, counting them in the palm of her hand. Gathering the required amount, the young woman smiled as she dropped the coins into the innkeeper’s expecting hand. He pocked the payment, and Ciri returned her attention to her drink, picking up the heavy mug delicately, not wanting the thick head of foam to spill before she got to taste it. She brought it to her mouth and hesitated as the froth covered her lips before tilting the mug. It was outstandingly bitter, yet that signature underlying flavor of malt and perhaps even chocolate came through at the end of ever sip. It was rough to go through, having to endure the pungent domination of harsh alcohol just for a quick aftertaste of sweetness.

            The more she drank, the more unwound she felt herself become, and it surprised the young woman at how quick the alcohol was affecting her. Perhaps her lack of alcohol consumption in general was to blame. However, she took comfort in the obvious fact that one pint wouldn’t be enough to make her drunk and incoherent. It would just make her dangerously bold. Well, more bold than usual.

            As she reached the halfway point of her pint, she wandered over to the obnoxiously loud gwent table and observed the matches. There were three games happening at the long table, and people cheered and scowled from all around the players, as someone eventually had to give up coin or a card from their deck at the end of each loss.

            “Fancy a round, miss?” asked a young man with a wide toothy grin. Ciri kept herself composed, fighting the urge to cringe at the sight of his half empty smile. She wondered how someone so young could be missing so many teeth, but settled on the thought that perhaps he lost many fights… or just that Novigrad wasn’t much for making hygiene as readily available to each citizen.

            “I don’t have a deck to play with,” Ciri answered truthfully.

            “That’s alright, the innkeeper let us borrow one of his decks for tonight’s tournament. It’s just that all those who play with his deck have to bet coin since these cards aren’t anyone else’s cards to give away,” the man replied, still smiling. He obviously wasn’t ashamed.

            “Well I guess a round or two won’t hurt,” Ciri said, a genuine smile of excitement gracing her face.

            “Good!” The main exclaimed, shuffling a deck he pulled from his bench. “This is the innkeeper’s deck. It’s Northern Realms. Aron, get up and let the lady sit to play!” The player sitting opposite of him grunted in disapproval, muttering something under his breath, as he sacrificed his seat for Ciri.

            The Swallow sat down, quietly thanking Aron, before returning her attention to the toothless man sitting in front of her. He flashed his smile once more and pushed the inkeeper’s deck towards Ciri. She picked up the beaten deck, noticing that many edges of the cards were bent or torn. Shuffling the deck once more herself, she selected her randomized hand and placed the remaining deck to the right of her.

            “Your bet?”

            “Let’s keep it simple for this first round. I need to warm up,” Ciri laughed awkwardly. “Five orens?”

            “Enough for another pint, huh?” guffawed her opponent. “Five orens it is!” Gesturing to the empty table space in front of them, he said “Ladies first.”

            Looking at her hand, she noticed she had two infantry spies, one decoy, two elemental cards, and five unit cards. She decided that her best move was to buff up her hand by sacrificing her spies. Throwing the first round wouldn’t be so bad if she had a higher number of cards in her hand.

            She played one and picked up two random cards from her remaining deck, as was the benefit of spy cards, and immediately, he picked it up with a decoy.

            Fuck.

            Playing it safe, she put down a basic infantry unit card with a power of one. It was still her plan to throw the first round.

            He played the spy, smiled wide to the point where his eyes closed tight, and picked up his two random cards. It was a good thing he was playing with a Northern Realms deck too.

                Idiot.

            She decoyed his spy.

            The man shifted as he watched her play, undoubtedly fearing that she was going to play it again. He probably didn’t have another decoy to use.

            Clearing his throat, he put down an infantry card with a power of five.

            Taking this opportunity to continue building her deck, she played the spy once more and picked up two more cards from her deck.

            As the game went on, Ciri threw the first round as planned, and as the second round came up, she was dominating the cards’ battleground. The by-standing crowd was cheering her on, and even to her surprise, one of the many prostitutes that overpopulated Novigrad took notice and tried to show Ciri some _special_ attention. Sure, there was something exhilarating about having someone want you, but Ciri wasn’t the type to patron prostitution in any way. However, due to her travel-worn soul, she didn’t reject the woman when she took the liberty of sitting on her lap; the notion of a beautiful young woman paying her attention was just too irresistible.

As the round progressed, the man had no choice but to let her have this one if he wanted to stand a chance and force the game into a third round.

            He passed.

            The crowd cheered and even the strumpet on her lap raised her arms in excitement, then reached over the table to grab Ciri’s mug, only a quarter of drink still left, and forced it up to Ciri’s mouth, urging her to stay intoxicated to celebrate. Swallowing the gulps of beer, Ciri pulled her head away from the delirious prostitute, and wiped her mouth from any streams that may have traveled down her chin when the mug was forced into her face.

            In the third round, Ciri could feel victory approaching, and couldn’t wait to have it realized. Everyone else watching could feel the tense anticipation, and watched as her opponent struggle. In his dejected manner, he kept his playing hand at the edge of the table, instead of on top like Ciri.

            _This is it,_ Ciri thought to herself, _I’ve won. I have no cards left, and he only has one. Unless he has a ten-level card, I’m winning._

            She watched the toothless man cringe as he slowly placed his last card down on the playing field.

            A ten.

            “What the fuck?” Ciri asked, in pure disbelief.

            What were the fucking odds? Why would he let himself be destroyed like that in the second round and then all of a sudden magically have just what he needs to win?

            The woman wrapped around her neck scoffed at the loss. In a bout of immaturity, Ciri took offense. “I’m winning, he cheated,” she glared at the woman, her pride hurt.       

            “Sure, hun,” the woman responded, “that’s why he’s taking all your money.”

            “It’s just five orens,” Ciri muttered. “I’ll win the next match, watch.”

            “Mhmm,” the woman hummed, gazing off elsewhere in the inn, perhaps looking for another person to spend her time on.

            “You,” Ciri said directly, pointing to the young man who had just taken her coins, “Play me again, but use a different deck.”

            “What? Are you accusing me of cheating?” the man said with a hint of mockery in his voice. The crowd laughed, but Ciri’s face stayed stern. “Alright, alright. I just so happen to have a monster deck. How about that?”

            “Play,” Ciri said, gathering the used Northern Realms deck. “This time,” in frustration, she put the deck down and reached into her pocket awkwardly, causing the woman on her lap to hold on tighter for fear of falling, “Thirty orens.”

            The man nodded thoughtfully.

            “So you do got money, huh?” the woman muttered into her ear slyly, her playfulness returning at the smell of coin.

            Ignoring the comment, Ciri kept herself focused on her opponent.

            “Play, you go first,” she said.

            The man chuckled and shuffled his deck, selecting his random hand and then putting aside his leftover cards.

            If there was one thing she knew, it was that the best way to beat a monster deck is to have a Biting Frost card. As she cut her deck and created her hand, her heart skipped aa beat at her luck, seeing just that one elemental in her hand.

            Just as she suspected, the man started playing infantry cards that spawned the privilege to take cards from his discard pile and that multiplied their strength. Hoping playing her low cards would lure him into wasting his hand, Ciri finally played her Biting Frost card and crippled his chances, allowing her to take the round for her own victory.

            As the second round came around, Ciri had no chance but to let him take it, as his combos were ruthless, and wasting her cards in hopes of catching up on the score board was a bad idea.

            As the third round came around, Ciri found herself in the same position as the previous match: on the cusp of victory. She was at least fifteen points ahead of him, with only two low-level cards in her hands, and one random one in his hand. This round was hers. She could feel it-

            He played his leader card… which worked like a Commander’s Horn.

            Ciri’s jaw dropped as he surpassed her in score by thirty points.

            What the fuck?!

            “This is bullshit!” Ciri growled, fiercely standing up, sending the prostitute to stumble onto the floor. “How the fuck is it that you keep pulling this last minute shit!”

            “Hey, you can’t accuse me of cheating now,” he said, still staying seated, a look of smug pride on his face. “Leader card is always there for someone to use.”

            “It’s still bullshit. You always have some damn trick at the end! Stop saving that shit!” Infuriated, she reached over the table and grabbed the man by the collar of his shirt. “I’m not paying for that shit.”

            “Yes, you are,” the man muttered menacingly, shoving her hands off of him. “And if I have to fight a lady for it, I will.”

            Ciri could feel her blood boiling.

            _It’s just a game,_ the reasonable side of her was saying.

            But her reasonable side was overpowered. Ciri was ready to seriously harm this cheater, and anyone who supported him.           

            “Go ahead and hurt me,” Ciri instigated, “Give me the excuse to pummel you into the cobblestones.”

            The crowd hushed as they could all feel the familiar air of a fight brewing. They all wanted it. It wasn’t gwent night without one! Everyone had heard of people dying for these cards, these pieces of paper, yet not everyone had seen one, but tonight… tonight just might be the night when they would witness it. And they were eager to witness it.

            But before anyone could take a swing, Ciri found herself being pushed and shoved from all directions, and then was tossed out the large door she had walked into less than an hour ago and onto the damp cobblestone streets of Novigrad.

            “No fighting in my inn!” shouted the innkeeper, “You are no longer welcome here!”

            “What?” gasped Ciri, scrambling to her feet. “What about the other asshole?”

            “Oh trust me, he’s been escorted out too, just from a different entrance- to keep you fuckers from fighting in the fucking streets. Now get! Cause trouble in someone else’s establishment!”

            With that, the innkeeper slammed his door shut and left Ciri standing baffled on the streets.

            Typical. What the Swallow had expected to be her outlet for relief just added more to her stress. Fuck gwent. She wouldn’t touch that game again. Taking a deep breath, she began to stroll down the roads in search of her temporary bed. Back to the road again tomorrow with no relief in sight…

                       


End file.
